The Floating Outfit 63 Read online

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  Spanish Grant County is open for the taking, and some East Coast sharpies are moving in. But the one man standing in the way is rancher Stone Hart, who has friends by the name of Fog, Counter, and Ysabel. And when the members of General “Ole Devil” Hardin’s floating outfit are joined in Arizona by a lady named Calamity, the land grabbers, bushwhackers, and bank robbers have a wildcat by the tail. Now the range is running with blood-and the wildcat is fighting back!

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 63: ARIZONA RANGE WAR

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Dell Books in 1996

  Copyright © 1996, 2021 by J. T. Edson

  First Electronic Edition: September 2021

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Publisher’s Note:

  As with other books in this series, the author uses characters’ native dialect to bring that person to life. Whether they speak French, Irish, American English or English itself, he uses vernacular language to impart this.

  Therefore when Scottish characters use words such as “richt” instead of “right”; “laird” for “lord”; “oopstairs” for “upstairs”; “haim” for “home”; “ain” for “own”; “gude sores” for “good sirs” and “wha” for who” plus many other phrases, please bear in mind that these are not spelling/OCR mistakes.

  For my nursemaid-cum-minder, Maggie McGhie, who always gets us from here to there and back the longest way with stops for a Coors “heavy” beer, or six, at Jeff’s Pub in Tucson and the Rusty Spur at Scottsdale in passing.

  Author’s Note

  While complete in itself, this narrative follows immediately after the events recorded in WEDGE GOES TO ARIZONA.

  When supplying us with the information from which we produce our books, one of the strictest rules imposed upon us by the present-day members of what we call the “Hardin, Fog, and Blaze” clan and the “Counter” family is that we never under any circumstances disclose their true identity or their present locations. Furthermore, we are instructed to always employ enough inconsistencies with regard to periods and places in which incidents take place to ensure that neither can happen even inadvertently.

  We would also point out that the names of people who appear in this volume are those supplied to us by our informants in Texas, and any resemblance with those of other persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  We realize that, in our present permissive society, we could use the actual profanities employed by various people in the narrative. However, we do not concede that a spurious desire to create realism is any justification for doing so.

  Since we refuse to pander to the current trendy usage of the metric system, except when referring to the caliber of certain firearms traditionally measured in millimeters—e.g., Luger 9 mm—we will continue to employ miles, yards, feet, inches, pounds, and ounces when quoting distances and weights.

  Lastly, and of the greatest importance, we must stress that the attitudes and speech of the characters are put down as would have been the case at the period of this narrative.

  J. T. EDSON

  Chapter One – I Choose When—and Who—to Fight!

  “IT’S GODDAMNED LUCKY for Eustace Edgar Eisteddfod, as he liked to be called, that he got killed the way he did!” Anthony Blair snarled furiously. Even after many years in the United States, he had an accent that gave evidence he had grown up in Birmingham, England. He was small, lean, and had parchmentlike sharp features that were not rendered any more likable by his buckteeth, and there was something weasel-like in his appearance and demeanor. His clothing was Eastern in style and of such sober hue that, taken with his usual expression of piety, he looked like an undertaker, even though he was occupying the best suite offered by the Spreckley Hotel in Prescott. Elsewhere throughout Arizona, the most noticeable thing about him would have been that there was no sign of his being armed in any way. However, this was no particularly noticeable omission in the capital of Arizona. “After all the money we put for setting him and those other three bastards he brought in up with the ranches in Spanish Grant County. Then, after he’d fixed it for two of them to be put under, it turned out that, unbeknown to him, they’d both made wills that left theirs to kinfolks instead of sticking to the original deal.”

  “He did get Hayes of the Arrow P without that having happened, though,” Willis Norman pointed out in a surly New England voice. He had been the one responsible for recruiting and leaving the removal of the other three ranchers in the hands of the man who claimed to be of Welsh descent, and he did not care to be reminded how badly the scheme had gone wrong. Although they were partners in a scheme by which they hoped to make a fortune apiece and gain positions of great power in Arizona, there was a great contrast in appearance between himself and the other speaker. He was close to seven inches taller than Blair and weighed nearly twice of as much. Massive of lines and porcine of face, his bulky body strained at the costly Eastern garments he had on; he, too, gave no indication of bearing armed weapons. “Anyway, it’s no use crying over spilled milk. What we have to do now is see how we can bring off the takeover of that damned Spanish grant regardless of who owns what there.”

  Because Congress had ratified the Spanish grant for its original owner when the annexation of Arizona by the United States was completed on February 24, 1863, the vast area of land that became the county of that name remained under his control despite the envious eyes that were constantly being cast upon it by various American speculators eager to gain possession of it. His dominance had been far from despotic. In fact, he had allowed a town owned by American businessmen of various kinds to rise in the center of the area. When he died intestate and no one of his race put in claims, the government in Washington, D.C.—many members of which had never really favored the proposition of one person, especially one who retained Mexican citizenship, owning so much United States’ soil—had ruled that it would be divided into four equal portions demarcated by natural features such as hill ranges and rivers.

  Hearing what was proposed through sources in the national capital before the matter was made public, Blair, Norman and their third partner, Graeme Steel—who would be joining them shortly with one of the men essential for their future arrangements in the light of the less than satisfactory developments under discussion—had seen a way to acquire the whole region. They had known any attempt to bring this about as a single corporation would be resisted strenuously and probably be to no avail, so they had sought for a man sufficiently ruthless to carry out their scheme. Having been acquainted with Eisteddfod under a different name in Washington, D.C., Norman had claimed that his knowing something of the reason for the change of identity made him perfect for their needs. i From the beginning, the alleged Welshman had carried out his duties to the complete satisfaction of his employers. He had selected the candidates for ownership of the other three ranches and made them agree to a contract drawn up by an attorney in Prescott whereby any who died let his land be shared between the survivors.

  At first, despite there being no profit accruing in return for the considerable expenditure required, the arrangements went along in a manner that met with the approval of the three conspirators. Having allowed sufficient time to elapse for the quartet to become accepted as bona fide landowners, even though only Cornelius MacLaine had had experience of the cattle business and they were dependent on their respective foremen to carry out the running of the ranches, they had instructed Eisteddfod to begin the next stage of the scheme.

  With the aid of an ex-jockey called Beagle who had been barred from employment in that line for dishonesty, the “Welshman” had arranged for Douglas Loxley of the Lazy Scissors ranch to die by what appeared to be a riding accident. Too late it had been discovered that the ranch had been left in an incontestable will to a kinsman, Major Wilson Eardle, who had recently retired after a career with the United States Cavalry. To make matters worse, when a similar fate befell MacLaine, who ran the CM brand, he too had arranged for the property to go to a relative, his nephew Jethro “Stone” Hart, a Texan well-known for running a group of very competent and loyal contract trail drivers known as the Wedge. The three conspirators had decided that Hart, more experienced in all matters pertaining to the cattle business and the ways of the West, would prove much the tougher nut to crack.

  It had been Eisteddfod who suggested what might be done to ensure the success of their scheme. He received the backing they required, including support of a group of young Easterners donated by some of the wealthy liberals in Washington, D.C.—who had no desire to see Arizona attain statehood unless they could gain at least some control of its legislature. The “Welshman” had set about trying to create hostility between the two new ranch owners and stir up animosity against them in Child City, the seat of what was now
known as Spanish Grant County. There had followed a series of failures that ended with Eisteddfod, Beagle, and the leader of the hired guns who were supplied by the conspirators dead, fortunately without any of them being able to tell what had brought them to their fate.

  With so much money already invested in the scheme, despite having found that the liberals were disinclined to provide more financial aid, the conspirators had no intention of relaxing their efforts. They had reached agreement about how the desired results could be achieved, and the meeting that night in the hotel was for the purpose of obtaining the means to let the various parts of the scheme be put into effect.

  Before either of the partners could continue what appeared likely to develop into another of their frequently acrimonious debates—none was willing to accept the assumption by another of the two that he was the senior—the front door of the suite was opened without the formality of a knock. Through it came the third member of their alliance and a second man they both recognized as being previously of use to them and now to be an essential factor in their scheme.

  In many respects, Graeme Steel was an even less noticeable figure than his two companions. In height and build between them, everything about him—even his city-style clothing—was so ordinary in appearance that he could easily have passed unnoticed through a crowd at any level of Prescott society except where those who wore attire peculiar to their specific line of work were concerned. He had mouse-brown hair left visible by the plain gray derby hat he was carrying and a face so devoid of characteristics as to be unlikely to attract notice. Despite being equally wealthy and unscrupulous, he seemed to have nothing in common with his associates. Nevertheless, like them, he possessed a number of contacts of vital importance, and it was one of these by whom he was accompanied.

  John Nicholson looked like many other bureaucrats of his level in every government and state agency in the nation. The garments and the jewelry he sported suggested that he was not living solely upon his earnings as the senior land agent for the Territory of Arizona. About five feet seven in height, he had a thinning thatch of reddish-brown hair plastered down by a liberal application of bay rum, and his pallid and far-from-handsome features normally bore an expression of condescension created by his knowledge of the power he could wield by virtue of his position. However, his face looked more disturbed than haughty at that moment; he had no reason to be pleased by the summons he had received, though he knew he did not dare refuse.

  “I’ve Haynes Lashricker and two more of the hired guns waiting in the bar downstairs,” Steel announced in a voice devoid of accent or tone. “But I thought we’d better deal with our friend here first. I’m sure he’s got some pressing matters demanding his attention, and we wouldn’t want to keep him from her—them—would we?”

  “W-What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Nicholson queried. His voice held none of the pompous tone that he, like many of his kind, adopted when dealing with persons he considered of no importance or potential influence.

  “You’ve heard about what’s been happening in Spanish Grant County, haven’t you?” Blair asked, realizing—as did Norman, if his baleful scowl was any indication—that Steel had brought the visitor only to ensure that he alone could not be held responsible for anything that might go wrong.

  “Of course,” Nicholson confirmed, remembering the part he had played in the four men obtaining possession of the ranches.

  “And you’ve heard that Mr. Eisteddfod and Mr. Hayes have left their properties to relations?” the weasel-featured conspirator went on.

  “No,” the land agent denied. His anxiety had been increasing since he had received the command to meet with Steel.

  “Well, they did,” Blair stated. “And you’ll be receiving the documentary proof in a couple of days’ time.”

  “I will?” Nicholson queried, and his worried look grew even more noticeable.

  “You will,” Blair confirmed. To ensure that any blame could be shared by his two partners, he continued, “We all can guarantee that.”

  “Th-Then the matter will be easy to resolve,” the land agent asserted, recalling how all the necessary documentation for the transaction that had put the four ranches into the possession of their owners had been so impeccably produced that it was impossible to be proved other than genuine. “All the beneficiaries have to do is bring proof of their claims to my office and I can register their ownership.”

  “Then that’s all we need to see you about for the time being,” Steel said with mock gratitude. “I hope we haven’t made you late for Michele.”

  “N-No!” the land agent answered, wondering how this man had learned about his connection with the woman who did not have the same name as his wife. “Can I go now?”

  “Go ahead,” Steel authorized. Then, after the land agent had taken a hurried departure, he went on, “Well, there’s one we don’t need to worry over. With what I have on him, there’s nothing could make him tell what he’s up to or knows about us. Call downstairs on the voice pipe, one of you, and tell them to send the three from the bar up here to us.” Scowling, Norman did as suggested.

  After a short time, three men who were as unlike in appearance as the partners came into the room!

  In the lead, twenty-year-old Michael Round walked with a swagger suggesting a high self-opinion. Six feet in height, with black hair and a moderately good physique, he had a tanned and clean-shaven face that would have been fairly handsome if it had not been for the cruelty in its lines. His clothing was more Mexican vaquero and charro than American cowhand in style. The hat was a fancy high-crowned sombrero. He had a frilly-bosomed, grubby white silk shirt, a necktie made from rattlesnake skin, a waist-long black bolero jacket and trousers with legs, which were tight on the thighs and wide at the bottom with silver filigree, ending in sharp-toed boots with large-roweled spurs that jingled loudly on high heels. However, his brown gunbelt was Western in cut and carried two pearl-handled Colt Artillery Model Peacemaker revolvers in holsters that were tied down at the bottom.

  Next to enter was Jack Straw, the oldest of the trio by several years. He was about an inch shorter than Round, whom he regarded with something close to a sardonic amusement although even one as touchy as Round would have been hard put to detect it. He was carrying instead of wearing a well-worn tan J. B. Stetson hat with a Montana peak indicative of his origins. His brown hair was cropped short and going gray at the temples, and his rugged, mustached face had the texture of old leather. His attire, the functional working garb of a cowhand from his home state, was nowhere nearly as flashy as that worn by Round. While plain, his gunbelt and brace of walnut-handled Peacemakers, which—while of different barrel lengths—hung just right for rapid withdrawal, had obviously seen much use.

  Although not quite as tall and somewhat more lightly built than the other two, about halfway between them in age, the man who now called himself Haynes Lashricker was more impressive. Like Straw, he had his black Texas-style Stetson in his left hand. His neatly trimmed hair was black and his handsome, tanned face clean-shaven; his forehead, with a noticeable scar shaped like a flattened W, showed none of Round’s openly bullying truculence. Rather, it had an indication of strength of will and intelligence mingled with bitterness in its lines. Neat and functional without being flashy or fussy, his clothing was such as a prosperous rancher might wear when working on the range. On each side of his black waistbelt in a Missouri-style holster was a fine-looking ivory-handled Colt Pocket Pistol of Navy Caliber revolver—rechambered to accept metallic cartridges—with its butt turned forward so as to be readily accessible to either hand.

  “This is Taos Lightning,” Steel introduced, indicating the youngest man.

  “They call me that ’cause I hail from there ’n’ am,” Round announced in what he considered to be a tough tone. His accent was common to New Mexico.

  Swaggering across the room, watched with a less-than-flattering gaze by the other two visitors, the young man helped himself to a drink from the decanter on the dressing table. Then he took a cigar from the box next to it, bit off the end, and spat the removed portion on to the floor. Having established himself as being particularly tough and competent, he lounged against the wall to puff smoke rings into the air with studied ease.